Clenching his teeth, Pavo resisted the urge to clamp a hand to his injured shoulder. Denter milked the applause from his supporters and prepared to cut down his opponent with another blow. The young man gasped. He shut out the noise and the pain and the looks of Pallas and Murena in the podium, and focused instead on the advice Macro had conveyed to him in the tunnel.
Gripping the bulk of the net in his trembling right hand, he wielded its coiled length in his left hand in the manner of a drill instructor preparing to mete out punishment with a whip. The lead pellets at the edges were bunched together at the end to form a series of sharp teeth. Pavo whirled his wrist in a circular motion, building up momentum in the coiled end of the rope. Denter paused, his sword hanging in front of him, blood dripping from the tip. Pavo flicked his wrist forward and lashed the net at his opponent. It arced in front of him below waist height and lacerated Denter’s right leg, the numerous lead pellets hooking into the ample flesh of his thigh. Then he ripped the net across and a hollow scream erupted from inside Denter’s helmet as the pellets ripped off chunks of flesh. The veteran stumbled back and dropped his sword as he struggled to retain his balance. Bright-red blood streamed thickly from the torn flesh of his leg.
Retrieving the coiled length of the net with a jerk of his pained right arm, Pavo lashed in the opposite direction. The pellets sank into Denter’s other leg, prompting another wild howl of agony as Pavo yanked it free, tearing off more strips of flesh. Denter sank to his knees on the sand. Both his legs were drenched in blood. The crowd roared Pavo on as he cast the net over Denter’s head and encircled the stricken veteran, wrapping it around him so that his arms were constricted. Then he released the net. Denter tried rolling towards his abandoned sword. But Pavo darted over to the weapon and scooped it up to another chorus of cheers from the spectators. The Pompeiians had fallen deadly silent. They looked sheepishly down at their fallen hero and shook their heads mournfully.
Pavo booted Denter in the back and sent him crashing to the ground. Then he glanced up at the podium. The imperial secretary and his aide looked profoundly relieved. Pallas straightened a wrinkle in his toga and gave Pavo the thumb. The crowd roared itself hoarse. In the gallery above the freedmen, Gurges stared at Denter with horror. Then he hurried out of his seat and bolted for the nearest exit, elbowing his way past the guards.
Pavo pulled his net off Denter to allow his opponent to rise to his knees and accept his fate with a measure of dignity. But instead Denter hurled himself at Pavo. It was a desperate lunge, and Pavo cut him down with a stab to his right arm. The blade tore through his bicep and the pain threw Denter off balance and sent him stumbling to the ground. The spectators whistled and jeered at the outrageous behaviour of the veteran. Now Pavo stood over him and held the sword above his head, poised to plunge it into the back of Denter’s neck. His arm muscles tensed. He looked down and considered his defeated opponent with a mixture of pity and contempt.
‘Son of a fucking traitor,’ Denter sneered, his voice laced with venom. ‘Son of a cowardly, gutless-’
Pavo drove the sword down in a fell swoop. The tip pierced the back of Denter’s neck. The fallen gladiator briefly spasmed as the blade cut through his spine. Then he stilled, and the umpire raised Pavo’s wounded arm in victory. The crowd erupted with joy.
The dust had settled and Paestum brooded under a velvet night sky as Macro was escorted to the makeshift infirmary by guards from the local barracks. The arena was deserted now, as the supporters had flocked to the taverns and brothels to toast a local victory against their hated rivals from Pompeii. The town had been relatively peaceful, by all accounts, and Macro was greatly relieved to have escaped a riot. In his mind barbarians thirsting for your blood were one thing, but warring Romans unsettled him. The smell of death permeated the corridor leading towards the infirmary. Like mouldy cheese, thought the optio. Another reminder of why he avoided field hospitals at all costs.
He found Pavo lying on a straw mat, lost in thought as he stared at the ceiling. His right shoulder had been dressed by a nurse. The bowls of blood-tinged water and trays of used surgical instruments were all that remained of the day’s work, much to Macro’s relief. Pavo turned at the sight of the soldier entering the infirmary and smiled weakly through the throbbing pain of his wound.
‘That worked out all right in the end, then,’ Macro announced. He tried to sound cheerful but the words came out weary and flat. He was merely relieved to have avoided a grisly death at the hands of the imperial secretary and his aide. Gladiator bouts were a lot more difficult to watch when your own life rested on the outcome, Macro thought.
‘Oh yes,’ Pavo replied, affecting a mock-cheerful tone. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I grumble about the life of a gladiator. You only have to avert widespread rioting and looting, save the skins of a couple of imperial rats and help free the family of a friend threatened with being sold into slavery. But other than that, this fighting business is easy.’
‘All right, it got a bit hairy out there, lad,’ Macro conceded. ‘But there is a bright side to your victory.’
Pavo screwed up his face at the optio. ‘Really? And what do you suppose that is?’ he asked coldy. ‘The noblemen of Paestum can sleep easily in their beds tonight, thankful that their fellow citizens haven’t ransacked the whole city? Or perhaps I should celebrate the fact that Pallas and Murena escaped causing the Emperor huge embarrassment by allowing a riot to break out at an event he sponsored?’
Something in the optio’s expression intrigued Pavo. Macro folded his arms across his chest. ‘There’s more, lad. You’re not a gladiator at the house of Gurges any longer.’
Pavo frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘He wagered a fortune on Denter winning today.’ Macro shook his head and grinned. ‘Placed it all with some bookie called Carbo. Gurges has lost everything. He’s bankrupt. He’s had to sell off his gladiators just to pay his other debts.’
‘Thank the gods …’ Pavo said, closing his eyes. His triumph had not been in vain. Newly enriched with the proceeds from Denter’s defeat, Carbo would release Clodia and the boys. And with the ludus being disbanded and only promising gladiators possessing any resale value, there was even a chance that Bucco might be reunited with his family after all. A smile was poised to break out on Pavo’s face when another thought nudged him. He opened his eyes and cocked his chin at Macro.
‘But if the gladiators have been sold off — who owns me now?’
‘I do,’ a sly voice behind them said.
Macro and Pavo turned their heads and saw Murena standing at the infirmary entrance. Pavo felt his muscles tense across his chest and tried to sit up on his straw mat to confront the imperial aide, but his wound flared and he leaned back again, wincing in pain.
‘What are you talking about?’ Macro snapped at Murena.
A flame flickered in the eyes of the freedman as he folded his hands behind his back. ‘Gurges has been forced to sell his assets to the highest bidder. In this case, the imperial palace.’ His thin lips strained into a grin. His eyes flicked from the enraged optio to the aghast gladiator. ‘Smile, Pavo. You’re now enrolled in the imperial ludus in Capua.’
For a moment Pavo lost the power of speech.
‘You’re probably wondering why.’
Macro and Pavo exchanged troubled glances. Murena stepped into the infirmary and brushed past the optio. He paced to a table and ran his hands over an array of blood-encrusted surgical instruments laid out on a tray.
‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘Today we saw the power of the mob. Thankfully, that uncouth multitude are too slow to grasp their own influence. Otherwise they might chase us out of the palace and run the place themselves.’ He picked up a pair of bronze forceps and admired them under the flicker of an oil lamp. ‘In the country of my birth, we would call that a democracy.’